Ireland Pt 3: Ardagh Hotel-on-a-Hill, in the West
Once upon a time I did not care where I stayed, so much as the fact that I got to be in that place. Put me on a six-floor walk-up in Paris with circular stairs and red carpet and a Parisian host with Bushy Eyebrows and I was happy to walk ten miles and come to climb those six floors and still cook dinner.
Honestly, I’d probably still do that, but recently where I stay is of more importance to me. I want to be in a central location where I can come back and take a nap before a long, leisurely dinner. Does it have a good shower? Do I like the decor?
We arrived at Hotel Ardagh just as dusk had finished settling into the night. It was a modest place perched on a hill overlooking a finger of the bay. As you walked in there was an old-fashioned lounge to the right where people would get drinks while waiting for a table in the restaurant. This room had a baby grand piano, gleaming wood surfaces and a fireplace which burned bricks of something that might have been peat. Soft jazz played for the guests.
Straight ahead was a massive wood desk where sat a man who had a face which was somehow both youthful and old. Youthful because it was unlined, and old because life had somehow weighed in harshly here and there. He had grey hair, but that only served to make him urbane and suave. He asked us if we’d like some dinner after we settle into our room. We could eat a bite.
He took a large, brass key from a wall of hooks and escorted us to the second floor where we, and the restaurant, were located. No hotel swipe keys here, thank you. There was not even a hint of a computer at the front desk.
To welcome us they had large slices of warm gingerbread and tea. I want to run an inn someday and welcome people with warm gingerbread. Nothing could say more effectively “we are glad you are here.”
When people are glad to see you it is healing and wholesome. The cares of the world fade away and the night is not so dark. We changed for dinner and snagged a final table of the night at 8:45. The menu was a surprise, and we decided this place was maybe a little more genteel than we are. Suddenly the signs posted below of 85 euro for a four course dinner made more sense. Wine, soup or salad, entree, and dessert. We ate small salads and soups out of sticker shock.
Good morning Connemara.
Breakfasts at Ardagh were included in our room price and were the last word in breakfasts. Even now, nearly a year later, I feel happy about those breakfasts. One would walk into a shining and sunshiney dining room, which so recently was candlelit and cosy, and sit with a view over the bay while beginning to sip grapefruit and orange juices fresh squeezed, and to sip upon coffee. Presently a rack of toast would be delivered, and the servers would bring whatever you wanted that day choosing from a variety of full Irish breakfasts with blood pudding, to salmon and cheese platters.
That first morning I wandered back to the greenhouses, where some of the food for the hotel was grown. I spent time walking and trying to discover if there was a way to walk the hills behind the hotel. After finding nothing I asked the gardener and spent a delightful hour chatting with him about the gardens and some of the conflicts that still exist in Ireland between Ireland and Northern Ireland. It seems one cannot escape talk of elections wherever one goes, but I didn’t mind because I didn’t understand everything he said anyway because his accent was laid thick. Then too, he had pleasant eye wrinkles. He had started as an art student in Dublin and eventually wended his way west where he now worked as the outdoor caretaker and gardener.
The front of Ardagh.
The bay at low tide.
It seemed like a good idea to take a walk at the time but after I flattened myself against a stone wall as a vehicle flashed by inches from me I got myself back to the hotel and was grateful to be there. People do walk on Irish roads all the time but it seems like taking one’s life into one’s own hands. As I am prone to dropping things it wasn’t a good activity for me there — perhaps some hills upon which cars do not run.
One of the features the hotel had was a third story conservatory which we all loved and frequented. After several days one of the hotel staff commented that they didn’t often have guests who enjoyed the hotel as we did. Many people came to eat dinner or to crash at night and did not use a variety of the rooms that were available for relaxation. Too bad for them they didn’t explore. These rooms were wonderful.
One morning we woke to rain. After breakfast we sat in here listening to the rain hit the skylight and felt the peace and warmth of this place close around us. It had been about seven months since mom’s death and I was still reeling in grief. Sometimes I did not know if I would ever recover. This place was so homey and solid that it comforted me. It has birthed a dream in me to create a place like this in North Carolina. A place with open doors and old-fashioned rooms and paper invoices. With heavy brass keys and staff who has worked there for fifteen years because they love to be there. Who create art for the walls and serve tables.
Most hotels and places I’ve gone to have focused so heavily on the business side of things that they miss the calling of hospitality that naturally rings clear in inns and places to stay for travelers. This place was well run as far as I could see — humming with efficiency and clockwork, but it did not make the mistake of identifying itself as a business first and foremost.
The owner, who is from Belgium, told me one night that they see so many people rush by their place. They snap pictures of the bay from their car and never stop. On the other side they have people who have come back for the forty years they’ve been running Ardagh. I know why, I want to go back and back and back too.
I want to do what he said and just pull up a chair outside and sit there so long that the wildlife return. To come inside on a cold September night to a clean and bright fire burning in the hearth, while the bar tender makes me a drink and the music plays. I want to go upstairs and chat with the server from Eastern Europe who has been working here for many years, while he recommends a good wine and puts in the order for a lamb curry.
I want to sit in the rooms that held me in my grief and remember that dark times do pass, and that home is a place which one can find all over the world when people value food and song and cheer.
The last night we spent in Ardagh was cold. I threw on a sweater and some sweats and went to view the stars from the south lawn. It wasn’t possible to stay out long because of the raw edge to the air but the coldness also made everything crystalline. The night ended when a falling star fell so close and bright that I gasped with the bright light. Simultaneously a man nearby honked into his handkerchief and I was so focused in on the star that I thought “so that’s the sound a falling star makes.”
Then laughed and laughed and laughed. The timing was exquisite and to my brain so over-fatigued from grief and trauma of the past year it seemed a natural conclusion to draw. I don’t think I remembered to make a wish or if I did, don’t remember what it was. Probably something along the lines of relief from the relentless pain.
Wish granted. Brief moments of relief are all we get at first from times like that. Ardagh, the falling star, and the man blowing his nose all came together for one cosmic moment of respite.
Life is a funny, funny thing.
Good night friend.
